


Headache

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Canon Compliant, Forehead Kisses, Headaches & Migraines, Innocent Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, Laudanum, M/M, Sickfic, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He let his head sink back into his hands. “Hurry,” I heard him whisper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headache

The first time after we began sharing living quarters that Sherlock experienced one of his headaches was rather alarming.  
  
The cause was apparent. He was working a great deal with his microscope, spending hours peering through the eyepiece. I had noticed that when he was focused on a task, he focused entirely. It was sometimes as if everything else in the entire world disappeared, and he was nothing more than a brilliant brain, a piercing set of eyes, and a set of long fingers making the necessary adjustments.  
  
When he was like that, he completely disregarded everything else, including his own body. He would end up hunched over his instrument in the most fantastic of positions for hours on end. It made my body ache just to see him like that.  
  
I had made the mistake of commenting on his habit once. He scowled at me and made it clear that my interference was not welcome.  
  
So during this particular marathon of study, I held my tongue. For hours.  
  
Whatever he was doing, it was not going well. He would peer into the eyepiece, scowl, and scribble something on some loose pieces of paper he had scattered across the table on which he performed his experiments. He repeated this activity over and over, changing the glass slide under the microscope’s lens with the rapidity of familiarity and without changing his crouched position.  
  
I was reading the newspaper, turning the pages as quietly as I was able so as not to interrupt his ruminations, and so was completely unprepared when he, to my great astonishment, uttered a cry of frustration and hurled a slide across the room to shatter against a bookcase. “I give up!” he burst out.  
  
“Holmes? Whatever is the matter?” I had dropped my newspaper and now I rose. (I must note that at this point, so early in our friendship, we were still in the practice of addressing one another by our surnames.)  
  
“I… it seemed so clear, but these samples must have been tainted. Hours of work and I’ve got absolutely nothing to show for it.” He straightened up and turned his back on his equipment.  
  
“I am sorry to hear that,” I told him sincerely. “But please, now, come away from all that.”  
  
“No. I have to…” He stopped speaking abruptly.  
  
“What is it?” I demanded, taking a step towards him.  
  
“It’s nothing.” However, despite his protest, his voice was weak, and then, to my great alarm, all the colour left his face.  
  
“Holmes, sit down!” I took the few steps I needed to reach him, my arms outstretched. I was truly concerned that he was going to faint.  
  
He did not reply, but he also did not protest as I maneuvered him into his armchair. He collapsed into it and let his head fall into his hands.  
  
“What is it? Is it your head?” I knelt next to him and attempted to tip his head up so I could observe him.  
  
“Hurts,” he whimpered [ _I do not whimper_ is written in bold letters above this line. _Yes you do. It’s fine_ is written along the margin.].  
  
I peered into his eyes. They looked dreadful—glassy and bloodshot and watering. His entire face was a perfect picture of misery; mouth clenched tight and his brows drawn down. His colouring was an unhealthy grey.  
  
I reached for the back of his neck to detect if he had any fever and he flinched at my touch. “Good Lord, Holmes, you’re as tight as a drumhead,” I realised. I moved in front of him and ran both hands around the back of his head, down his neck, and across his shoulders. Every muscle was as hard as a brick. No wonder his head ached so. He didn’t respond except to groan.  
  
I considered what to do. Ordinarily for someone in such extreme pain I would dose them with laudanum. I was aware that for some, it became an unbreakable habit, but as a periodic comfort, I saw no harm in it.  
  
With Sherlock Holmes, I was already well aware that his nature was one of a habitual user. His pipe, his cigarettes—and of course his cocaine. However, I didn’t really see any other recourse. He was in a great deal of pain, and the soothing mixture would also get him to relax and hopefully stretch out and sleep. “If I give you something,” I explained, speaking as softly as I was able, “I do have to make it perfectly clear that it is going to be one dose only, I will administer it, you will take it in my presence, and you are not to seek out more. Is that understood?”  
  
I did not add that then the vial containing the tempting mixture would be put securely in my pocket.  
  
“Please…” he murmured, attempting to shrug my hands away from his shoulders.  
  
“All right. I’ll go fetch it.”  
  
He let his head sink back into his hands. “Hurry,” I heard him whisper.  
  
*  
  
I had dosed him, and now he was sleepy and languid, but it was obvious that his pain was still quite extreme. I tried to get him to stretch out on the sofa, but he protested, saying that the cushions were too hard and it felt worse to lie down on them.  
  
“How about your bed, then?” I suggested. He nodded and I got him to rise, steadying him with my hand at the small of his back as he staggered towards his bedroom.  
  
I had not, at that point, familiarised myself with his room. It didn’t hold any great mysteries. The dressing table covered in theatrical make-up was a bit of a surprise, but at that moment I had eyes only for my friend. I pulled the bedclothes back and he fairly collapsed onto the mattress. He was, fortunately, in a state of semi-undress already, wearing just a shirt and trousers, his feet bare.  
  
I would have to remember to clean up the broken glass from the slide he had thrown, I told myself as I pulled the covers up.  
  
I allowed him to sleep for as long as he needed. It was twelve hours before he shuffled out of his bedroom. I had heard him moving about occasionally in the interval, but had not wished to disturb him.  
  
It was two more days before he was truly free from pain. He moved stiffly and was unusually quiet. He seemed to be having particular trouble with his eyes and his neck, making reading nearly impossible. This frustrated him and added to his foul mood.  
  
I tread lightly in those days and did not inflict my medical judgement on him, and was greatly relieved when the condition finally abated.  
  
*  
  
After that incident, I began to do some research. I did not wish to be so helpless the next time the pain attacked him. That it would again, I had no doubt.  
  
He was Sherlock Holmes, after all, and his horrid habits were bound to catch up with him again.  
  
*  
  
The next time was approximately a month later. This time the incident was brought on by a drawn-out case and lack of sleep. We were back at home after several days of intense activity. He had not eaten much of Mrs Hudson’s good roast lamb and seemed disinclined to do as he usually did and collapse into bed or even divest himself of more than his boots. Instead, he was in the sitting room with me, still in coat and collar and tie. I was opening our neglected correspondence and he held the newspaper in front of himself.  
  
I could tell that his eyes were bothering him. He kept trying to read, rubbing at them angrily every few minutes. He finally threw his newspaper to the floor in a fury. “They’ve changed to an inferior ink; the words are all smeared,” he declared, kicking at it in derision.  
  
“Perhaps you should take some time to rest,” I interjected cautiously.  
  
“I’m fine,” he shot back. He thrust himself out of his chair. I have no idea what he intended to do, for he never got to it. “Oh…” he suddenly moaned.  
  
“What is the matter?” I demanded, rising myself. His eyes were tightly shut and now he bowed his head. His hands clenched into fists and his mouth was pressed into a tight line. He didn’t reply. “Is it your head?” I ventured.  
  
He gave one curt nod.  
  
“Let me look at you,” I requested. I stood in front of him and gently raised his head with a finger under his chin. His colour was dreadful, and when he opened his eyes, they were, once again, clouded and red.  
  
“Come along, Holmes,” I encouraged. “I want to help.”  
  
“What can you do?” he snarled, but his voice was weak.  
  
“I have some ideas. Something new that I think will help. Come along.” I shepherded him into his bedroom. “Sit,” I ordered, pointing at his bed.  
  
“Why?” He sounded petulant and frustrated.  
  
“Just sit, and don’t speak.” I bustled over to the window, opening it to allow fresh air in and pulling the heavy curtains shut, blocking out as much light as I could. “Now, take off your coat and loosen your collar.”  
  
Instead of doing as I asked, he remaining sitting stiffly on the edge of his mattress, his eyes shut again. They were watering so badly that I could see moisture glistening on his sharp cheekbones.  
  
“Shall I assist you?” I asked gently, approaching him. “Coat first.” I drew it off his shoulders and laid it aside. “Tie and collar, now.” I removed those—it was a bit odd undoing someone else’s collar but nothing I had not done for a patient before—and put them on his dressing table.  
  
I had taken off as much as I was willing to (at the time), and even that small action seemed to help. His rigid posture was relaxed the slightest bit.  
  
“What… now?” he demanded—well, _demanded_ was the correct word if he had been at his peak. Now, what coloured his words was more accurately described as exhaustion and acquiescence.  
  
“Please, just let me,” I begged. I began a very gentle massage.  
  
I had read a great deal and even spoken to other doctors and laypersons about it. I also am not an idiot—I observed what was going on. It was clear that the headaches were, at least in part, a result of overly-tight muscles. His neck and shoulders were like rocks. I doubted that, if pressed, he could turn his head.  
  
So, relaxing those muscles was paramount.  
  
I began with a few gentle fingers on his brow. He was seated on his bed and I was standing directly in front of him. Our legs were—to be honest—intertwined. I reached my hands up and carefully, gently, began—not necessarily a massage, but more a gentle movement along his brow with my thumbs.  
  
I envisioned smoothing wrinkles out of a sheet. With fingers on his temples, I slowly and as lightly as possible stroked my thumbs from the knotted, creased middle of his brow outwards. “Shhh…” I admonished. “Shut your eyes.”  
  
After a few minutes, I paused.  
  
“On the dressing table,” he murmured.  
  
“What? Oh…”  
  
He had discerned my need and supplied a solution before I could even voice my enquiry. “Oh… thank you.” _Enough, you great idiot,_ is what I wanted to say to him, _stop analysing everything,_ but at the time, we were still, in many ways, nearly strangers.  
  
I saw the bottle of hair oil. I did understand. I took it in my hand and applied the smallest amount to my palm. Rubbed my hands together briskly.  
  
“There now,” I stated, perhaps somewhat less than brilliantly.  
  
He didn’t seem to care what I said. He was focusing entirely on what I was doing.  
  
I resumed my work. Crease to brows to temples. With the light oil smoothing my strokes, I now struck a balance between firm pressure and the gentlest of ablutions. After a while, I moved my hands down to his cheeks, lightly running my thumbs along the dark circles under his eyes. From there I slid them down to either side of his neck. He was so tense and stiff I was amazed that he hadn’t cut off the circulation of blood to his brain entirely. I knew that rubbing firmly would be too painful at this point. I needed to loosen him up a bit more first.  
  
I rested my fingers along the hard cords, hoping that the warmth would do some of the job before I began to stroke him gently. I spread my fingers out, expanding my ministrations to the juncture of his neck and shoulders. He was so tense it nearly hurt my fingers, but I continued to gently smooth the rigid muscles. I slid my hands under his open shirt and set to work on his shoulders.  
  
Slowly but surely, I began to feel the knots start to loosen. I applied more pressure now, knowing that my actions would increase blood flow and speed his recovery along.  
  
“You’ll be all right,” I finally stated soothingly. “You allow yourself to get so tense that it is actually making you ill.”  
  
He made a noise of vague agreement.  
  
“Lean your head on me,” I instructed, guiding it myself until his brow rested on my stomach. “Let me take its weight.” I continued to rub him, methodically working out individual knots. I paused briefly to apply more oil to my hands so as to decrease the friction on his pale skin.  
  
Finally, my fingers began to feel a bit cramped, but the muscles beneath them felt decidedly softer than they had at the outset of my ministrations. I moved my hands up and gently lifted his head. My stomach felt cold as I tipped it back. His eyes were still shut and his breathing was slow and even. The pinched, pained expression was gone and his colour was even a bit improved. “There, now,” I almost whispered. “Lie back and sleep.”  
  
A murmur of acquiescence issued from his lax mouth.  
  
I eased him down to his pillow and crept out of his room, shutting the door carefully behind me.  
  
The great detective slept.  
  
*  
  
The next time was a few months along. It had been a horrid case—the sort I detested. He knew that what affected me negatively and seemed concerned more about my reaction to the events than to the case itself, which was unusual. He did solve it—of course he did—but it was without any sense whatsoever of exultation or even relief.  
  
We were back in our rooms. There had been a desultory tea—neither of us, truth be told, were in the mood for honey-drizzled scones or even the good, hot tea Mrs Hudson had brought to us. I had tidied the tray for her to retrieve and fallen into my comfortable chair. He wandered over to the window and, standing stock still in front of it, began to narrate what he observed. I shut my eyes.  
  
“Newly-hired boy from the green grocers—looking at the house numbers keenly, his basket over his arm. Wobbly wheel on that hansom—that will be a problem in a few hours. The woman across the way has finally had her child. Couple; married many years but not old—childhood sweethearts? What does that even mean? They certainly know each other intimately…”  
  
I had not been consciously heeding what he was saying, but the drone of his voice had lulled me into a pleasant, torpid state, so his sudden silence startled me. “Watson?” The deep voice that had been so pleasant and calming just a moment before now sounded strained.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“My head…”  
  
I looked over at him keenly. Yes, I could see it—features pinched; brows drawn. Fingers clenched into fists. He glanced over at me and I could see his eyes—cloudy and red.  
  
All right.  
  
At this point I was probably rather alarmingly accustomed to removing his daytime attire. Coat—off. Tie and collar—off. Shirt? Usually, yes. Braces down first, of course, then off. Singlet—depended. Boots and stockings and trousers off. Soon he was seated on his bed, clad in nothing but his drawers.  
  
[A note in Sherlock’s distinct hand: _Got distracted, did you?_ ].  
  
[John’s hand: _You are very distracting, especially when I’ve removed most of your clothing._ ]  
  
“Rest there a minute. I want to fetch something.” He frowned as I moved quickly to my own room through the door which joined the two chambers. I first shucked my own coat, and then retrieved what I was after and returned to him. “I’ve been doing more research,” I told him as I rolled up my sleeves. “This should help immensely.”  
  
As I had done before, I began by anointing my hands with oil, but instead of the Macassar oil from his dressing table, I applied a few drops of the mixture that was in the small bottle I had retrieved. I slid my thumbs along his brow.  
  
“That’s very nice,” he murmured.  
  
“It’s essence of lavender in almond oil,” I told him softly. “Lavender provides relief from pain and the scent is supposed to have a soporific effect.”  
  
“Pillows…” he mumbled.  
  
“Yes. That’s right. Some people put dried lavender into their pillows, or make it into sachets and tuck it into the drawers that hold their night clothes.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
It was a success. It was the fastest that I had ever gotten him over one of his headaches, and the scent of the lavender was lovely and relaxing for me as well. I withdrew from his bedroom happily, placing the small, sweet bottle on my dressing table.  
  
The next day I requested that Mrs Hudson make up some sachets.  
  
*  
  
“I was… I mean…” He was being uncharacteristically inarticulate the next morning.  
  
“Yes?” I prodded.  
  
“I was thinking… perhaps Holmes and Watson are a bit too formal?”  
  
Oh. Not at all what I was expecting him to say, but welcome nonetheless.  
  
“So… Sherlock and John?” I clarified.  
  
“Yes. Would that be acceptable?”  
  
“Yes. It’s fine,” I assured him. Truth be told, I had wanted to broach the subject some time before, but there had never seemed to have been the proper moment. “In fact, I think that that would be quite nice.”  
  
He smiled at me in that sweet, innocent way he sometimes had—I seemed to see it especially when I complimented him on something other than his deductive prognostications, such as his violin compositions. That smile warmed me on the inside, somehow.  
  
“And… John?” He tried out my name hesitantly.  
  
“Yes?” I replied softly, for, as one does with a wild rabbit, I did not wish to startle him.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Nothing else was said. Nothing else was necessary. I understood that he meant my ministrations of the previous evening.  
  
It was fine.  
  
*  
  
So now I had an almost guaranteed way of treating his headaches. I continued to greet the incidents with dismay, not because I did not know how to tend to him but because his pain meant that he had pushed himself far too hard and I had not observed and prevented his condition in time.  
  
It was only later in our relationship that I altered my treatment of him a bit.  
  
Now, at the first sign of distress, I bestow the lightest of kisses across his furrowed brow before I lead him by the hand to his bed and begin my treatment.  
  
[Sherlock has added a note to the end of this manuscript: _This is adequate if somewhat lacking in an ordered enquiry into the science of the matter. What is it about the chemical makeup of lavender that causes its distinct effects? Would the use of other plants in the same family have the same outcome? I should like to do an experiment pertaining to those questions the next time I need your ministrations._  
  
There is a space, and then a final notation: _Nothing else about your treatment is to change—particularly the kisses. I do love you._ ]  
  



End file.
